A breeze whipers across the points of his ears, singing praises of sins he already knows too well. The stars glitter on the cool, dark water, watching him try to ignore the hot, empty tension he feels growing inside. He swallows hard. His House would kill him if they knew. They would strike every honor from his name and scourge his life from history. None of them would keep his memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the moonlight, he slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around his thighs. He flushes hot at his memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently he begins to swim, as he’s done so many times, and his doubts wash away in the inky-black ecstasy of water over skin. His House is wrong, he decides, as he has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the shadows stir, and with them a fire in his heart. He swims faster at their silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets him in the water, blacker than the night. Every time it’s hard to believe his eyes, and to drown beneath his second look the echo of deep, ancestral fear. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. She looks almost too much like his twin, like a sister reflected across the light.

A thousand thoughts race through his mind, a thousand questions, a thousand dreams, but he has no words. He never does. He fears he never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all he needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. He nuzzles against his lover’s cheek, nibbling on the line of silver rings that glitter up her ear. Her scent is sweet and dark, intoxicating, like lavender and myrrh.

His lover’s arm slips around his waist, insistently demure, a moonless autumn night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit he needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. He knows that, one night soon, he will give himself over to those charms. One night soon he will swim with his lover back to her distant, alien shore; one night soon, they will lie together on that black, forbidden sand; one night soon she will break his silence with the sounds of passion too long denied.

When that night comes, he knows, he will surrender forever to the pure and elemental blackness that has haunted all his dreams. It will be a worship far, far overdue.

By touch he shares his loneliness, letting his hands wander, the way they do in the nights he spends alone. Closing his eyes, he follows the long curves of his lover’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; he feels her warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, his lover’s fingers caress his thighs, and he whimpers.

When he can bear to look again, his reflection watches back, mirrored darkly in eyes the color of pomegranate wine. This time he almost finds his words, his simple declaration of his unrepentant need, but they catch in his throat and the still night air.

His courage falters, his mouth half-open, and he pulls himself closer, trying desperately to lose himself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the black-chocolate luxury of his lover’s lips and teeth and tongue. The words are precious, but they slip away, and he looks to the side, trying to fight back his welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; his slim, dark lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all he needs to know.

A breeze whispers across the points of her ears, praising the betrayal she already knows too well. The darkness swirls beneath the cool, bright water, watching her try to ignore the hot, empty tension she feels growing inside. She swallows hard. Her House would kill her if they knew. They would strike every honor from her name and peel the flesh from her bones. Forever they would curse her memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the darkness, she slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around her thighs. She flushes hot at her memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently she begins to swim, as she’s done so many times, and her doubts wash away in the starry-white ecstasy of water over skin. Her House is wrong, she decides, as she has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the moonlight stirs, and with it a fire in her heart. She swims faster at its silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets her in the water, paler than the light. Every time it’s hard to believe her eyes, and to drown beneath her second look the echo of deep, ancestral rage. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. He looks almost too much like her twin, like a brother reflected across the night.

A single thought races through her mind, a single question, a single dream, but she has no words. She never does. She fears she never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all she needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. She nuzzles against her provocateur’s cheek, nibbling on the line of onyx studs that glitter up his ear. His scent is crisp and warm, intoxicating, like oranges and pine.

Her provocateur’s arm slips around her waist, insistently demure, a moonlit summer night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit she needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. She knows that, one night soon, she will give herself over to those charms. One night soon she will swim with her provocateur back to her distant, alien shore; one night soon, he will lie submissive on that white, forbidden sand; one night soon she will break his silence with the sounds of his spirit binding to her will.

When that night comes, she knows, she will surrender forever to the pure and elemental moonlight that has haunted all her dreams. It will be an addiction too long in the making.

By touch she offers her desire, letting her hands wander, the way they do in the nights she spends alone. Closing her eyes, she follows the long curves of her provocateur’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; she feels his warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, her provocateur’s fingers caress her thighs, and she whimpers.

When she can bear to look again, her reflection watches back, mirrored brightly in eyes the color of dandelion wine. This time she almost finds her words, her simple declaration of her unrepentant need, but they catch in her throat and the still night air.

Her courage falters, her mouth half-open, and she pulls herself closer, trying desperately to lose herself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the pink-candy luxury of those enchanting lips and teeth and tongue. The words could end her torment, but they slip away, and she looks to the side, trying to fight back her welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; her slim, pale lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all she needs to know.

A breeze whipers across the points of his ears, singing praises of sins he already knows too well. The stars glitter on the cool, dark water, watching him try to ignore the hot, empty tension he feels growing inside. He swallows hard. His House would kill him if they knew. They would strike every honor from his name and scourge his life from history. None of them would keep his memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the moonlight, he slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around his thighs. He flushes hot at his memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently he begins to swim, as he’s done so many times, and his doubts wash away in the inky-black ecstasy of water over skin. His House is wrong, he decides, as he has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the shadows stir, and with them a fire in his heart. He swims faster at their silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets him in the water, blacker than the night. Every time it’s hard to believe his eyes, and to drown beneath his second look the echo of deep, ancestral fear. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. He looks almost too much like his twin, like a brother reflected across the light.

A thousand thoughts race through his mind, a thousand questions, a thousand dreams, but he has no words. He never does. He fears he never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all he needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. He nuzzles against his lover’s cheek, nibbling on the line of silver studs that glitter up his ear. His scent is sweet and dark, intoxicating, like lavender and myrrh.

His lover’s arm slips around his waist, insistently demure, a moonless autumn night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit he needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. He knows that, one night soon, he will give himself over to those charms. One night soon he will swim with his lover back to his distant, alien shore; one night soon, they will lie together on that black, forbidden sand; one night soon he will break his silence with the sounds of passion too long denied.

When that night comes, he knows, he will surrender forever to the pure and elemental blackness that has haunted all his dreams. It will be a worship far, far overdue.

By touch he shares his loneliness, letting his hands wander, the way they do in the nights he spends alone. Closing his eyes, he follows the long curves of his lover’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; he feels his warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, his lover’s fingers caress his thighs, and he whimpers.

When he can bear to look again, his reflection watches back, mirrored darkly in eyes the color of pomegranate wine. This time he almost finds his words, his simple declaration of his unrepentant need, but they catch in his throat and the still night air.

His courage falters, his mouth half-open, and he pulls himself closer, trying desperately to lose himself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the black-chocolate luxury of his lover’s lips and teeth and tongue. The words are precious, but they slip away, and he looks to the side, trying to fight back his welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; his slim, dark lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all he needs to know.

A breeze whipers across the points of his ears, praising the betrayal he already knows too well. The darkness swirls beneath the cool, bright water, watching him try to ignore the hot, insistent tension he feels growing inside. He swallows hard. His House would kill him if they knew. They would strike every honor from his name and peel his flesh from his bones. Forever they would curse his memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the darkness, he slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around his thighs. He flushes hot at his memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently he begins to swim, as he’s done so many times, and his doubts wash away in the starry-white ecstasy of water over skin. His House is wrong, he decides, as he has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the moonlight stirs, and with it a fire in his heart. He swims faster at its silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets him in the water, paler than the light. Every time it’s hard to believe his eyes, and to drown beneath his second look the echo of deep, ancestral rage. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. He looks almost too much like his twin, like a brother reflected across the night.

A single thought races through his mind, a single question, a single dream, but he has no words. He never does. He fears he never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all he needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. He nuzzles against his lover’s cheek, nibbling on the line of onyx rings that glitter up his ear. His scent is crisp and warm, intoxicating, like oranges and pine.

His provocateur’s arm slips around his waist, insistently demure, a moonlit summer night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit he needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. He knows that, one night soon, he will give himself over to that seduction. One night soon he will swim with his provocateur back to his distant, alien shore; one night soon, he will lie submissive on that white, forbidden sand; one night soon he will break his silence with the sounds of his spirit binding to his will.

When that night comes, he knows, he will surrender forever to the pure and elemental moonlight that has haunted all his dreams. It will be an addiction too long in the making.

By touch he offers his desire, letting his hands wander, the way they do in the nights he spends alone. Closing his eyes, he follows the long curves of his provocateur’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; he feels his warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, his lover’s fingers caress his thighs, and he whimpers.

When he can bear to look again, his reflection watches back, mirrored brightly in eyes the color of dandelion wine. This time he almost finds his words, his simple declaration of his unrepentant need, but they catch in his throat and the still night air.

His courage falters, his mouth half-open, and he pulls himself closer, trying desperately to lose himself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the pink-candy luxury of those enchanting lips and teeth and tongue. The words could end his torment, but they slip away, and he looks to the side, trying to fight back his welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; his slim, pale lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all he needs to know.

A breeze whipers across the points of her ears, singing praises of sins she already knows too well. The stars glitter on the cool, dark water, watching her try to ignore the hot, empty tension she feels growing inside. She swallows hard. Her House would kill her if they knew. They would strike every honor from her name and scourge her life from history. None of them would keep her memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the moonlight, she slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around her thighs. She flushes hot at her memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently she begins to swim, as she’s done so many times, and her doubts wash away in the inky-black ecstasy of water over skin. Her House is wrong, she decides, as she has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the shadows stir, and with them a fire in her heart. She swims faster at their silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets her in the water, blacker than the night. Every time it’s hard to believe her eyes, and to drown beneath her second look the echo of deep, ancestral fear. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. He looks almost too much like her twin, like a brother reflected across the light.

A thousand thoughts race through her mind, a thousand questions, a thousand dreams, but she has no words. She never does. She fears she never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all she needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. She nuzzles against her lover’s cheek, nibbling on the line of silver rings that glitter up his ear. His scent is sweet and dark, intoxicating, like lavender and myrrh.

Her lover’s arm slips around her waist, insistently demure, a moonless autumn night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit she needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. She knows that, one night soon, she will give herself over to those charms. One night soon she will swim with her lover back to his distant, alien shore; one night soon, they will lie together on that black, forbidden sand; one night soon he will break her silence with the sounds of passion too long denied.

When that night comes, she knows, she will surrender forever to the pure and elemental blackness that has haunted all her dreams. It will be a worship far, far overdue.

By touch she shares her loneliness, letting her hands wander, the way they do in the nights she spends alone. Closing her eyes, she follows the long curves of her lover’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; she feels his warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, her lover’s fingers caress her thighs, and she whimpers.

When she can bear to look again, her reflection watches back, mirrored darkly in eyes the color of pomegranate wine. This time she almost finds her words, her simple declaration of her unrepentant need, but they catch in her throat and the still night air.

Her courage falters, her mouth half-open, and she pulls herself closer, trying desperately to lose herself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the black-chocolate luxury of her lover’s lips and teeth and tongue. The words are precious, but they slip away, and she looks to the side, trying to fight back her welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; her slim, dark lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all she needs to know.

A breeze whipers across the points of his ears, praising the betrayal he already knows too well. The darkness swirls beneath the cool, bright water, watching him try to ignore the hot, insistent tension he feels growing inside. He swallows hard. His House would kill him if they knew. They would strike every honor from his name and peel his flesh from his bones. Forever they would curse his memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the darkness, he slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around his thighs. He flushes hot at his memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently he begins to swim, as he’s done so many times, and his doubts wash away in the starry-white ecstasy of water over skin. His House is wrong, he decides, as he has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the moonlight stirs, and with it a fire in his heart. He swims faster at its silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets him in the water, paler than the light. Every time it’s hard to believe his eyes, and to drown beneath his second look the echo of deep, ancestral rage. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. She looks almost too much like his twin, like a sister reflected across the night.

A single thought races through his mind, a single question, a single dream, but he has no words. He never does. He fears he never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all he needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. He nuzzles against his lover’s cheek, nibbling on the line of onyx studs that glitter up her ear. Her scent is crisp and warm, intoxicating, like oranges and pine.

His temptress’s arm slips around his waist, insistently demure, a moonlit summer night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit he needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. He knows that, one night soon, he will give himself over to that seduction. One night soon he will swim with his temptress back to her distant, alien shore; one night soon, they will lie together on that white, forbidden sand; one night soon she will break his silence with the sounds of his spirit binding to her will.

When that night comes, he knows, he will surrender forever to the pure and elemental moonlight that has haunted all his dreams. It will be an addiction too long in the making.

By touch he offers his desire, letting his hands wander, the way they do in the nights he spends alone. Closing his eyes, he follows the long curves of his temptress’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; he feels her warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, his lover’s fingers caress his thighs, and he whimpers.

When he can bear to look again, his reflection watches back, mirrored brightly in eyes the color of dandelion wine. This time he almost finds his words, his simple declaration of his unrepentant need, but they catch in his throat and the still night air.

His courage falters, his mouth half-open, and he pulls himself closer, trying desperately to lose himself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the pink-candy luxury of those enchanting lips and teeth and tongue. The words are precious, but they slip away, and he looks to the side, trying to fight back his welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; his slim, pale lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all he needs to know.

A breeze whispers across the points of her ears, singing praises of sins she already knows too well. The stars glitter on the cool, dark water, watching her try to ignore the hot, empty tension she feels growing inside. She swallows hard. Her House would kill her if they knew. They would strike every honor from her name and scourge her life from history. None of them would keep her memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the moonlight, she slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around her thighs. She flushes hot at her memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently she begins to swim, as she’s done so many times, and her doubts wash away in the inky-black ecstasy of water over skin. Her House is wrong, she decides, as she has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the shadows stir, and with them a fire in her heart. She swims faster at their silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets her in the water, blacker than the night. Every time it’s hard to believe her eyes, and to drown beneath her second look the echo of deep, ancestral fear. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. She looks almost too much like her twin, like a sister reflected across the light.

A thousand thoughts race through her mind, a thousand questions, a thousand dreams, but she has no words. She never does. She fears she never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all she needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. She nuzzles against her lover’s cheek, nibbling on the line of silver rings that glitter up her ear. Her scent is sweet and dark, intoxicating, like lavender and myrrh.

Her lover’s arm slips around her waist, insistently demure, a moonless autumn night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit she needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. She knows that, one night soon, she will give herself over to those charms. One night soon she will swim with her lover back to her distant, alien shore; one night soon, they will lie together on that black, forbidden sand; one night soon she will break her silence with the sounds of temptation then fulfilled.

When that night comes, she knows, she will surrender forever to the pure and elemental blackness that has haunted all her dreams. It will be a worship far, far overdue.

By touch she shares her loneliness, letting her hands wander, the way they do in the nights she spends alone. Closing her eyes, she follows the long curves of her lover’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; she feels her warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, her lover’s fingers caress her thighs, and she whimpers.

When she can bear to look again, her reflection watches back, mirrored darkly in eyes the color of pomegranate wine. This time she almost finds her words, her simple declaration of her unrepentant need, but they catch in her throat and the still night air.

Her courage falters, her mouth half-open, and she pulls herself closer, trying desperately to lose herself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the black-chocolate luxury of her lover’s lips and teeth and tongue. The words are precious, but they slip away, and she looks to the side, trying to fight back her welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; her slim, dark lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all she needs to know.

A breeze whispers across the points of her ears, praising the betrayal she already knows too well. The darkness swirls beneath the cool, bright water, watching her try to ignore the hot, empty tension she feels growing inside. She swallows hard. Her House would kill her if they knew. They would strike every honor from her name and peel the flesh from her bones. Forever they would curse her memory.

. . .

Some things are worth the risk.

Dressed only in the darkness, she slips into the lake, wading deeper, until it licks up around her thighs. She flushes hot at her memories and the thrill of distant, latent shame. Silently she begins to swim, as she’s done so many times, and her doubts wash away in the starry-white ecstasy of water over skin. Her House is wrong, she decides, as she has decided so many times before; nothing so good could ever be wrong.

Across the lake the moonlight stirs, and with it a fire in her heart. She swims faster at its silent promise: knowing turns to wanting, and wanting turns to need.

A spirit meets her in the water, paler than the light. Every time it’s hard to believe her eyes, and to drown beneath her second look the echo of deep, ancestral rage. They float together, silent, circling, watching, breathing. She looks almost too much like her twin, like a sister reflected across the night.

A single thought races through her mind, a single question, a single dream, but she has no words. She never does. She fears she never will.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter; perhaps the kiss is all she needs to know.

They touch. A moment’s hesitation melts into embrace, into the warm and nervous softness of skin on skin. She nuzzles against her temptress’s cheek, nibbling on the line of onyx studs that glitter up her ear. Her scent is crisp and warm, intoxicating, like oranges and pine.

Her temptress’s arm slips around her waist, insistently demure, a moonlit summer night made fine, strong flesh. With every visit she needs that touch a little more. Their lips brush, just the barest touch, a quiet sharing of breath and the lingering invitation to more. She knows that, one night soon, she will give herself over to those charms. One night soon she will swim with her temptress back to her distant, alien shore; one night soon, she will lie submissive on that white, forbidden sand; one night soon she will break her silence with the sounds of her spirit binding to her will.

When that night comes, she knows, she will surrender forever to the pure and elemental moonlight that has haunted all her dreams. It will be an addiction too long in the making.

By touch she offers her desire, letting her hands wander, the way they do in the nights she spends alone. Closing her eyes, she follows the long curves of her temptress’s sides, smooth, unbroken strokes from ribs to hips; she feels her warm and slender softness, and the muscles firm beneath. Telling the same, solitary tale, her temptress’s fingers caress her thighs, and she whimpers.

When she can bear to look again, her reflection watches back, mirrored brightly in eyes the color of dandelion wine. This time she almost finds her words, her simple declaration of her unrepentant need, but they catch in her throat and the still night air.

Her courage falters, her mouth half-open, and she pulls herself closer, trying desperately to lose herself in a deeper, harder kiss, in the pink-candy luxury of those enchanting lips and teeth and tongue. The words could end her torment, but they slip away, and she looks to the side, trying to fight back her welling tears.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter; her slim, pale lover clutches back, just as hard, making silent, tender promises of kisses yet to come.

Tonight, that’s all she needs to know.

I want him to use me.

That sounds weird, doesn’t it? I don’t understand.

Sometimes, late at night, I wake up in his arms, and if I try to move, he pulls me back. He’s stronger than he lets on, and he holds me tight, closer, possessively. I feel helpless in his grip. His breath turns hard, and he nuzzles the back of my jaw. It makes me whine, and I feel him stiffen, by reflex twitching his hips against my rear. Maybe I’m still dreaming, but I think I hear him almost snarl.

It’s okay. In a minute he relaxes, and he’s the same sweet, cuddly boy I’ve always known, babbling love-notes in his sleep.

I never see that part of him, so different from when he’s awake. He has a cat’s dignity. He wears it like armor and never lets anyone in, I think not even himself. Even in bed with me, he talks and acts just like he writes, everything gentle and refined, carefully styled just so.

I love him for it. It’s beautiful. He treats me like his princess.

But there’s this other part of him. It’s a little scary, actually, like the jungle that never leaves the cat. He probably doesn’t even know it’s there. I wonder what he would think?

He loves his princess, and she loves him. But right then, when he takes her captive and she can almost feel his teeth…

. . .

More than anything, she wants to be his whore.
-J!

It scares me just a little; I know right away that something’s wrong. You’re as close to me as a prayer. Even without touching you I could recite you, could trace by memory every inch of you between my lips and upon your tongue, in my arms and against my hands. Even without listening, I know every sound you make, and this isn’t a noise you make in pleasure, even when it’s edged in pain. You’re scared, but I don’t know what you’re dreaming, only that I reach out to touch you and find you always frightfully cold, shivering even on the warmest summer nights.

I slip a little closer, just to hold you, and you burrow quickly into my arms. You feel so tiny there, even smaller than I know you are, fragile like you’ve never been before. You feel like a kitten, almost, warming as you relax and settle against me, nearly purring as I trace my fingers down your naked spine. Two kisses leave you calm again, one beneath the your hairline, another pressed between your eyes.

The rhythm of your breath grows steady; the moonlight whispers across your skin. I watch you for a moment and squeeze you closer, joining you in your dreams. One thought leaves me nervous, though… it’s a nervous shiver of my own. Maybe, somehow, I’m to blame.

Sometimes, in your frightened whimper, I think I hear my name.